


Permanent Jet Lag

by monsterq



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BDSM, Bloodplay, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:00:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monsterq/pseuds/monsterq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve puts a big hand on his face, fingers curling around the back of his neck and into the short hair at his nape, thumb stroking gently at his temple.  Tony maybe makes a noise and presses into it, and goddamn, this is why he never lets Steve film.  Because while there might be one or two Tony Stark sex tapes floating around out there, if anyone ever got hold of this?  Of Tony practically purring and arching up into being petted like a goddamn cat?  Tony would commit murder.  Or destroy someone’s stocks, you know, whichever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Permanent Jet Lag

**Author's Note:**

> Written 12/4/12. More detailed warnings in end notes.

            It’s thundering outside, deep rolling rumbles like the growling of an enormous beast, and the rain beats down, hissing on the roof and slip-sliding down the windows of Tony’s house.

            He can’t stop smiling.

            “Steve,” he says.  “Don’t you love this weather?  I love this weather, I just—fuck.”  He wraps his arms around himself, tips back his head, and screams with exhilaration.  His voice is drowned by the pouring rain and the classic rock he can still hear blasting from his workshop.  The door is still open, because Steve, upon cruelly dragging him from his current project—which he was _this close to finishing,_ thank you very much—didn’t bother to close it. 

            He doesn’t even really mind, is the crazy thing, because now he can see the rain.

            “Okay, Tony,” says Steve, but he’s smiling.  “No more coffee for you.  When was the last time you ate?  Or slept?”

            “Oh, you know,” Tony waves a dismissive hand, “probably yesterday.  Or the day before.  I know you’re all about eight hours and a big breakfast in the morning, but I don’t need—”

            “I did go to war, you know,” Steve points out.  “Not to mention art school.  And I know you think you’re superhuman, but—”

            “No, that’s just you, I know—”

            “ _But,_ ” says Steve firmly, “you need to take care of yourself better.  Do I need to put you to bed myself?”

            Tony flutters his eyelashes.  “Maybe.”

            Steve rolls his eyes.  “Come on, Tony.  Look, I’ll make you a sandwich or something, and then you can sleep.  Just for a while, okay?  And don’t even think about trying to sneak back into your workshop, Pepper's told me all about your tricks.”

            It’s not a bad deal—Steve’s sandwiches are the best—but Tony pouts at him just for the principle of the thing, before he says, “Fine.  Nutella and banana?”

            “All right.”

            Tony hugs him hard and releases him fast, spinning towards the window to press his nose against it, breath fogging the glass.  He feels like a little kid, except when he was a little kid his father always pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed when Tony was like this, whirling through his office.  He definitely never made Tony nutella and banana sandwiches.

            Tony knows Dummy could manage a sandwich, probably, maybe even without burning the house down.  Jarvis could walk him through it.  That’s not the point.

            After he’s tired of watching the rain and the flashes of lightening that cleave through the sky like rips in the fabric of the heavens, wondering about Thor—he never did ask him exactly how much control he had over this stuff, or how it worked chemically, or—he finds Steve in the kitchen, watching slices of bread toast with a pensive expression.

            Tony boosts himself up onto the counter and swings his legs, because if he feels like a six year old, he may as well act like it.  “Steve,” he says.  “Steeeeeeeve.”

            “What?” Steve looks up, and the fondness on his face is like a physical blow.  It shouldn’t be, Tony knows that; it shouldn’t shock him out of his childish headspace the way it does.  If anything, it should push him deeper.

            But things have never worked for Tony the way people say they should.

            “Tony?” Steve looks concerned now, and that’s not right, he shouldn’t have that look on his face.  “You all right, Tony?  Do I need to—“

            “No.  No,” says Tony, pulling himself out of—whatever it is—with difficulty.  “I just got, uh, distracted.  I’m fine.  I just—it’s all good, Cap, really, stop looking at me like that.”

            “Okay,” Steve says, but he doesn’t for a few moments.  Then the toaster dings, and he busies himself with sandwich makings.

            Tony’s buzz is dead, and exhaustion is dragging at him, but he already knows he won’t be able to get to sleep.  He knows what he needs.

            And he knows—damn Pepper and Steve and their rules—that he’s going to have to ask for it.

            He waits until Steve’s put the sandwich on a plate and in front of him.  Then  he waits some more, taking a bite and making appreciative sounds that he doesn’t have to fake—seriously, if Steve weren’t so into saving the world and all that jazz, and if he didn't become an artist instead, this would be his calling. 

            He waits until Steve turns his back to leave, and then he breaks.  “Wait!”

            Steve looks back.  “I’m just going to the bathroom.”

            Tony feels himself flush, but he’s gotten this far.  “Steve, I’m—not going to be able to sleep, I need—please—”

            “Shh,” says Steve.  “It’s all right.  It’s all right.”

 

 

            Steve always insists on using a plastic sheet when they do this.  Tony thinks it’s ridiculous—after all, it’s not like he doesn’t have the money to replace all the bedclothes they ruin.  But Steve looks scandalized whenever he suggests that, so Tony’s learned to just play along.

            It’s not a high price to pay, after all.  And he has to admit there’s a certain appeal to the way he feels, stretched out on the bed all vulnerable and exposed with the smooth plastic at his back, unable to sink and hide himself in the warmth and cover of his bazillion thread-count sheets.  It’s pavlovian, now, the feeling of it crinkling underneath him, getting his heart thumping before they even start.

            Steve bends over to fetch the box out from under the bed, and Tony takes the opportunity to admire his fine, fine ass, because, well, _damn_.  Then Steve straightens up again, and Tony has to concentrate on not going into cardiac arrest, again.

            Steve’s eyebrows go up when he opens the box.  “Your collection has multiplied,” he observes.

            Tony shrugs.  “What can I say.  I buy shit online when I’m bored.”  Or nervous.  Or angry.  Or sad.  Or happy.

            “Yeah…these are nice, though.”  He’s got one in his hand, turning it around to examine the carvings on the handle, the sheen on the blade.  And there’s another thing Tony likes about Steve: his appreciation for a well-made knife.

            Right now he doesn’t have the patience, though.  “Can you just—”

            “Shh.”

            Tony waits, even though he feels like he might burst into flames or possibly explode if this goes on much longer.  Steve’s examining all his new knives with an assured but reverential air, one by one by one, and by god, is he going to have to—

            But then Steve looks at him, and he’s got that face on, that face that means good things are about to happen.  “I think I’m going to use this one,” he says, and honestly at this point Tony doesn’t give a fuck, he just wants Steve to do something, but he nods encouragingly anyway.

            Steve climbs up onto the bed, the plastic crinkling loudly under his knees.  “You ready?” he asks.  “Safeword?”

            Tony nods more frantically, “Strawberry, yes, come on.”

            “Patience is a virtue.”  Steve is smiling though, the smile with the crinkly eyes, and Tony’s inclined to forgive him.

            Steve’s face goes quiet then, one of those things that shouldn’t make sense but does.  And Tony—Tony sinks into himself, so that behind the backdrop of his pounding heart and the blood humming in his ears, he feels _present_ in his body, almost tingling all over.  He wants to be touched, to feel something, _now,_ but he also feels like he could wait forever.

            Steve puts a big hand on his face, fingers curling around the back of his neck and into the short hair at his nape, thumb stroking gently at his temple.  Tony maybe makes a noise and presses into it, and goddamn, this is why he never lets Steve take film.  Because while there might be one or two Tony Stark sex tapes floating around out there, if anyone ever got hold of this?  Of Tony practically purring and arching up into being petted like a goddamn cat?  Tony would commit murder.  Or destroy someone’s stocks, you know, whichever.  The point is, this is private.  And he’s not going to worry about it right now.  He’s not.

            Steve’s hand moves down over his chest, tracing the shrapnel scars around the arc reactor.  The knife is in his other hand.  Steve touches Tony with it, finally, barely skimming the skin where his fingers have been, and Tony squirms a little, pressing up against the blade.

            Steve pushes down on his chest firmly.  “Stay still,” he says, and his voice has gone deeper, rougher, in that way it does when they do this, and Tony shivers pleasurably. 

            Then the flat of the blade is cold against the thin skin of his throat, and Tony closes his eyes.  It’s like every nerve in his body is concentrated there, and Steve shifts the knife, pressing the edge, sharp and tingling, to his throat, and god, it’s so, so good.

            His breath is loud in his ears, and he feels like he’s floating.

            Steve trails the knife down, the point digging into his skin just hard enough to hurt, over his collarbone and onto his chest.  Then he presses harder, and Tony feels the bright, pure pain as the knife splits his skin.  He moans despite himself.  The blood wells up, warm and wet against his skin.

            “God,” Steve whispers, sounding almost awed, and Tony can feel him smooth his fingers through the trickle of blood.  Tony opens his eyes, and there he is with the blood so dark and sticky on his fingers, raising them to his mouth and licking them off, a little crease between his eyebrows, and Tony has to look away again before he spontaneously combusts from the hotness of it.

            Steve slides the knife over his skin again, pressing just enough to open up his skin.  It’s fireworks behind his eyes, intense and loud and just so _much—_ it pushes away everything inside his head, so that he’s sensation now, and nothing else.  Steve keeps cutting him, and Tony’s squirming and making noises he can’t even concentrate long enough to listen to.  He knows he’s bleeding on the plastic sheet now, can feel it running in thin droplets down his sides, and in this moment he wants nothing more than to stay like this, forever.

            A few minutes, or hours, or eternities later, Tony hears Steve saying his name.  He drags his eyes open again—he doesn’t know when he closed them.  Steve rests the flat of the knife against his bottom lip, and Tony opens his mouth, letting the knife slip in, and Steve draws his breath in hard.

            Tony sucks and licks the blood from the blade, curling his tongue around it lazily, enjoying the taste, the smooth metal and slick blood, and then he lets it slide from his mouth again.  He smiles dopily at Steve.  “Hi,” he says.

            Steve smiles back, his eyes warm.  “Hey,” he says.  “I’m going to get you cleaned up, okay?  Don’t move.”

            That sounds like a good plan to Tony.  He lies there as Steve cleans the knife, dries it, and puts it back into the box.  Sponges the blood from his body and bandages him—the first few times they did this, Tony tried to argue that the cuts were so shallow and stopped bleeding so quickly they didn’t need bandages, but Steve gave him the eyes, and he gave up.

            All too soon Steve is tugging at his shoulder.  “Up,” he says, and Tony sits up, wincing as the plastic peels from his back, and slides off the bed so that Steve can take off the tarp and put it in the bathroom to be washed.  Tony, and Steve as well, he suspects, has been hard for so long that it’s starting to hurt, but right at this moment, in his floaty headspace, it doesn’t seem to matter. 

            Later, maybe tonight if Tony can stay awake long enough, or tomorrow morning—they’ll curl into each other and jack each other off in laughs and groans muffled into each other’s shoulders, bodies shaking with the energy of it, teethmarks and gasping and sweat.  They’ll shower off the mess together, or maybe employ another washcloth.  It’ll be slow and warm, or fast and bright.  They’ll taste the salt on each other’s skin.

            Right now, Tony rubs his face into the carpet and feels the cuts pull as he stretches, listening to the silence in his head.

**Author's Note:**

> Entirely consensual knifeplay and bloodplay between Steve and Tony. Tony's various mental health problems. References to Tony's crappy childhood and abuse/neglect.


End file.
